


Song of Songs

by Fictionista654



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, F/F, Femslash, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-20
Updated: 2019-05-20
Packaged: 2020-03-08 08:50:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18891244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fictionista654/pseuds/Fictionista654
Summary: Literally just Morgana and Gwen as the characters in King Solomon's "Song of Songs." Biblical proportions of love.





	Song of Songs

**Author's Note:**

> I have edited the text of "Song of Songs" so it makes more sense for a modern audience (e.g. changing "hole" in the door to "lock", which is what it was). I used Mechon-Mamre as a guide for the translation, but I did translate some parts differently, or just changed them, when I thought it would fit the story better. All the text is from Chapter 5 of "Song of Songs", with some deletions.

_I sleep, but my heart wakes; the voice of my beloved knocks—Open for me, my sister, my lover, my dove!_

The first time Gwen sees Morgana is in the campus bookshop. Morgana is leaning over a shelf of Joyce, tank-top ridden up, vertebrae cresting likes waves from her back. She has sea-green eyes and smells like a cold winter’s day.

_I have divested myself of my garments; how shall I put them back on? I have washed my feet; how shall I sully them?_

The first time Morgana sees Gwen is in their first Irish Lit lecture. She is chewing her pink eraser-nub and curling a lock of dyed red-brown hair around her finger. Her face is wide-open and earnest, like a storybook princess’s.

_My beloved put his hand by the lock of the door, and my heart was stirred for him._

The second time Gwen sees her, Morgana is turned into the corner of the cafeteria, taut as a riptide and furious. “Leave me alone,” she says into her cell phone. “Let me be.”

_I rose to open the door on my beloved, my hands scented with myrrh, and my fingers overflowing with myrrh, on the handle of the door._

The second, third, and fourth times Morgana sees Gwen are all in Irish Lit. She pictures Gwen emerging from the water like a wild thing, dripping liquid freedom on the rocky Irish coast, her feet stumbling over the stones.

_I opened the door to my beloved, but my beloved had gone away. I searched for him, but I could not find him, I called for him, and he did not respond._

When Morgana answers a question, she’s always right. Her voice is strong as a pillar, and smooth as ivory. Gwen wants to build a home in Morgana’s voice, put her name in Morgana’s mouth.

_The guards who encircle the city found me, they hit me, they hurt me; they ripped away my veil, the guards of the wall._

Arthur begs Morgana to come home, to say goodbye to the man she hates. He asks her if she cannot find love in her heart, love for the man who struck her down when she tried to stand. Arthur says that Morgana leaving ruined him. Morgana responds that Uther ruined himself.

_I adjure you, O daughters of Jerusalem: If you find my beloved—what will you tell him? That I am sick with love?_

Gwen doesn’t worry until the third class Morgana misses. The trees bloom with orange leaves, and the mist carries their scent. When Gwen asks, she’s told _a family emergency_ —that familiar phrase, that ultimate non-answer.

_My beloved’s head is as the finest gold; his locks are curled, and raven-black._

Morgana stands at the edge of the grave, her heels sinking into the sucking mud. Her hair hangs before her face like a veil of mourning, and maybe she is in mourning, mourning for the father who never was. Arthur takes her hand, and they stand alone.

_His eyes are like doves by the rivers; washed with milk, and fitly set._

Merlin picks her next date, her first blind-date. He won’t even tell her the name. Gwen scrapes herself trying to put in her contacts, and thinks she may actually show up blind. She flushes her eye with saline-solution and winces at the pain.

_His cheeks are as a bed of spices, as banks of sweet herbs; his lips are as lilies, dripping with flowing myrrh._

Perfume on the pulse-points, where life is the most fragile. The neck, the wrists, behind her ears. All the places her heartbeat flutters. Morgana sprays the air and walks through the sweet-smelling mist.

_His hands are as rods of gold set with emerald; his abdomen is as polished ivory overlaid with sapphires._

Gwen sets her right hand’s fingers with her mother’s rings: graduation, engagement, marriage. The green gems, she hangs from her ears; the gold she drapes around her neck.

_His legs are as pillars of marble, set in golden sockets; his aspect is as the cedars of Lebanon._

Morgana pauses in the restaurant’s doorway, searching for Merlin’s friend. A familiar girl with large, expressive eyes watches her menu as if she suspects it will bite. Morgana strides across the floor, her heels clicking on the glossy wooden floor.

_His mouth is most sweet; he is altogether lovely. This is my beloved, and this is my friend, O daughters of Jerusalem._

“Are you Merlin’s friend?”

Gwen doesn’t believe her ears, but when she looks up, there she is: Morgana, the ocean. Morgana, the lovely. Morgana, whose lips are forming Gwen’s name.


End file.
